


Embers Like Glass

by Cumbersome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23890684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: Hermione has grown up without magic, believing herself nothing short of ordinary. An adult, her world changes when a runaway house elf slips into her home, exposing her to magic and a life she should have lived.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 98
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

Her back hurts. She smells like greasy food and grill grime. Her hair could do with a wash. She should change her clothes before she sits anywhere. But god, she feels like a sack of rotten seafood. 

Her keys clatter as she drops them in the bowl by the door. 

“Mum! I’m home!” 

Her bag slides from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a thud. She gives a huge yawn, wavering. The light from the street lamp filters through the blinds, striping the floor in an orange glow. 

“Mum!” 

No answer. Just the darkness of the flat, the shadowy outline of a lamp.

Not bothering with a light, she drags her feet to the kitchen. She checks the oven and sure enough, there is a plate inside, kept warm. She manages a smile, taking the food and dropping it unceremoniously to the table. 

With only the glow of the oven light for company, she sits down. Removes the pirate hat from her head. Grimaces as she removes a sweaty eye patch and blinks her eye back into focus. She lets out a long suffering sigh as she unclips the fake parrot from her shoulder. She looks at it, frowning. 

She throws it across the room.

Hermione Granger works for Dick’s Crab n Go. She has been there for three days and she has already contemplated suicide by lobster several times. 

“Alexa!” She shouts. “Play Killer Queen.” 

Alexa does. 

Breathing through her nose, she picks up her fork. 

It’s not a bad life, really. Her and her mum, their cat, a brightly orange fellow who turned up at their door when Hermione turned 10. They work, they pay the bills. They keep to themselves. Don’t make waves. Recycle. Sometimes they see a movie if they are feeling especially adventurous. 

They’ve rented the same flat for as long as she can remember. It’s a tidy place. Well, except for the books. They ran out of shelves long ago and before you knew it, books began to take up residence elsewhere, taking over every bit of free space. There are all kinds; dictionaries, textbooks, romances and thrillers, autobiographies. Anything and everything. 

She picks up a book now, something thin and cheaply made, the cover glossy. She turns it over and snorts at the man on the front, bare chested and thickly muscled, hair flowing as he stands on the prow of a ship. A woman drips off of him, eyes wide with passion, lips parted. She’s got that look about her; tart, her mum would say. 

She flips to page 50. It’s always page 50; there's never enough plot - rather, big strong man saves damsel, damsel is so grateful to big strong man that she promptly drops her knickers and her dignity. And sure enough, the phrase “hard member” leaps out of the print at her. Followed closely by...dear god, is that love canal? What in a wig wearing Santa Claus is a love canal? And why is it (shudder) slick?

She snickers, slurping a noodle. The noodles whips up, smacking her in the nose with sauce. Her eyes cross and she sneezes. 

“Bless the young Miss,” says a voice. 

Hermione screams. 

The creature standing on her stove also screams. 

Jumping and scrambling, they screech together. Hermione throws her dinner at the yelping creature, said creature cringing under an onslaught of sauce and garlic bread. Hermione dives under the table, wide eyed and cowering.

“Alexa! Call the Police!” 

“Playing Roxanne by the Police,” Alexa says

“What? No!” 

Horrified, she listens as music swells through the room.

“Rooooooxannne…” 

If she survives this, she is going to cram that malfunctioning piece of crap down the disposal.

“Miss!” The little creature on the stove calls. “Miss, please come out. Beansy is not here to hurt Miss.” 

“Put on the red light…” the speaker croons. 

“I’m armed!” Hermione shouts. She looks down at the fork in her hand and swallows. “I am also a - a -” her mind sputters, shoots flames. “A master of taekwondo! I could snap your spine with my pinky!” 

Cute. She can barely tie her bloody shoes. 

There’s a sound, a thud and a patter of feet. The table cloth twitches and large, luminous eyes peer at her, pointed ears hanging down towards the floor. 

“Miss should come out. Beansy is very sorry to have scared Miss.” 

Hermione’s head tilts. It is kind of cute actually. Like an overgrown hairless cat, wrinkled and liquid eyed. 

And talking. Like a little poorly grammared tea pot, squeaking at a human decibel. 

Crawling on her hands and knees, she comes out from under the table. The little creature, Beansy, shies away from her, its large ears drooping. It shivers. 

“Are you cold?” Hermione asks. “I have a blanket somewhere around here…” 

Those large eyes blink, suddenly fill with tears. “Miss would give Beansy a blanket?” 

“Erm, well yes.” 

Beansy wails, falling to the ground. “Beansy is not worthy! Beansy is wicked!” 

“Oh, god.” Disbelieving, Hermione watches Beansy kick and flail, watering the rug with a torrential downfall of salty tears. “I’m sure you’re very nice and not wicked at all.” 

“Bad! Bad Beansy!” 

Hermione reaches out, intending to comfort. She touches a foot and Beansy howls, leaping up. Books scatter, stacks leaning and crumbling as the tiny creature tears through, leaving behind a trail of tears and discarded socks. 

Socks? What the bloody hell…

She starts after the creature, grabbing onto a doorway as she slides around a corner. She freezes. 

Standing in her living room, back lit in the darkness by the street lamps, are two men and a woman. They are very tall and dressed strangely. And they’re holding...sticks? 

They look at her, seeing her as she sees them. One of the men, her own age, gangling and dark haired, steps towards her, his face washed in the light filtering in from the kitchen down the hall. He has brilliant green eyes and spectacles. And on his forehead, oddly, a scar shaped like a lightning bolt. 

“Hullo,” he says. His voice is soft, calm. Not sounding a bit like how she expects a burglar to sound. Less murdery, more reasonable.

“Uhm.” Hermione says. 

“Don’t be afraid,” says the woman. Hermione can’t see her face, but she has an accent, French. “We won’t hurt you.” 

Hermione sighs. “Look, I don’t have much money, but I can give you what I have.” 

“No, no,” says the man with the lightning bolt scar. “We’re not here to rob you.” 

“Oh. Well. That’s good, then?” 

“We are looking for a creature,” says the other man. “Bit panicked, small, high pitched.” 

Hermione points. “Up the stairs.” 

“Ah, thanks. Do you mind if I, uh -” he makes an awkward gesture towards the stairs. 

“Please. Go ahead.” 

“Thanks.” 

The man with the spectacles smiles suddenly. “Harry Potter,” he says, holding out a hand. 

“The person who lives here,” Hermione replies, taking his hand. 

“About that. Sorry to drop in on you like this. Rough night at work, y’know?” 

Hermione groans, thinking of the stuffed parrot. “Do you mind if I, eh, turn on a light? Bit dark.” 

“Please,” he says. 

The light clicks on and the three look at one another. 

Harry Potter has a kind face. Warm eyes. Hair could do with a brush and a sharp pair of scissors. Perhaps a good meal as well. He is lean, a starved look to him. He gives a shy smile, tapping that stick in his hand against his leg. 

The woman steps forward as the light comes on, watching Hermione’s face closely. She is, in a word, beautiful. Too beautiful. Almost eerily so. Her hair is silver, her eyes such a dark blue that they could be mistaken for black in the right lighting. There’s something about her, an uncomfortable sort of pull, a tug in Hermione’s gut. 

“Fleur Delacour,” the woman says. “The man upstairs is Bill. He will be retrieving our stray house elf.” 

“House elf?” 

Fleur smiles, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face. 

“You must really like to read,” Harry chuckles, gesturing at the room around them. 

Hermione pulls her eyes away from the woman in front of her. She gives a nervous smile. “When I have time.” 

“Are you not afraid?” Fleur asks. 

“I'm petrified.” 

“I really am sorry,” Harry says. He looks it, a grimace at the corner of his mouth. “We had to come in. We saw Beansy dart through the garden and scamper in through a window. We were sure no one was home.” 

Hermione gives a wry chuckle. “Surprise.” 

Footsteps. They turn and see the other man, Bill coming down, his hand pressed into Beansy’s back. 

Beansy seems to have calmed. His lip trembles a bit when Hermione’s gaze falls on him. 

Hermione coughs. She looks down at the house elf’s feet. “Are those my socks?” 

“Sorry,” Bill says. “They like socks.” 

“Huh.” She eyes the house elf. “Strange.”

Bill claps his hands. “Okay. Well thank you, and have a good night.” 

“Right...I’ll see you and your little friend out?” 

“Lead the way.” His smile is too wide, his eyes too watchful. His fingers shift on the stick in his hand.

Beansy’s eyes are suddenly frantic. He gives a cry, darting forward to put himself between Hermione and Bill, spreading his arms protectively over her legs. 

“Miss is a witch! Mister Weasley can’t!” 

Bill sighs. “Out of the way, elf. We haven’t time for this.” 

“No!” Beansy cries. His eyes dart to Harry. “Mister Potter! Please! Believe Beansy!” 

Harry looks uncertain, shifting. “Maybe wait a second Bill.” 

“No time,” Bill says. He starts forward. 

“Bill.” 

He freezes at the sound of Fleur’s voice, his eyes flickering. His jaw clamps, twitching. 

“Where are you from?” Fleur asks. She moves by Bill, her eyes intent on Hermione’s face, searching.

“Right here,” Hermione says. “I’ve always been here.” 

But that’s not quite true, is it? 

There was something before. It’s there, like a forgotten word, clinging to her tongue, making her head ache. 

Fleur takes her hand. “Look at me.” 

Hermione does. She looks into her eyes. And she sees herself. But it is not her as she is now. It is who she was. 

There is sudden heat between their palms, gold light twining around Hermione’s fingers. She stares, shocked, as it crawls over her arm, wraps around her throat. It settles over her face and it glows. 

It’s like a mask lifting, the skin peeled from her. She blinks and she is different. Her hands are strange to her. She touches her face but it’s not her face, the features all wrong. Her hair is different, curlier, bushier under her searching fingers.

Fleur stares at her with wide eyes, her jaw gone slack. 

“It’s you,” Fleur says. She touches Hermione’s cheek, her hands suddenly frantic, flying over Hermione’s face, her hair, pressing against her chest. “Don’t you remember?” 

Hermione tries. She focuses. And she cries out. 

It’s like ice, thick and layered over the grey of her brain. It fractures, splitting, and it’s agony, a twist of pain pressing against the inside of her skull, swelling it. 

She sees everything. Everything that has been hidden, locked in a dark box in a black room. She sees who she was before...before what?

“Do you remember?” Fleur asks. Her fingertips tremble against Hermione’s cheeks. "Do you remember me?" 

She remembers. A long time ago, a different life ago. Two girls, very young, digging for clams on the edge of the sea. Standing together, white foam at their ankles, green sea reflecting in their eyes. There was kinship between them, a quiet contentment. But something bittersweet. A sad certainty. The summer was coming to an end and they were parting. There was fear, but there was determination. 

Sand clinging to the water on their hands, they stood together, their hands cupped, holding back glowing balls of magic. They waited until the moment was right and let them go, let the sea breeze sweep them up, swirl them together. 

“My maman taught me,” little Fleur said proudly. “She said that I would know. Magic comes naturally to Veela. More than witches or wizards. Except for you, of course. You are the bestest witch.” 

Hermione smiled and held her hand. 

Crafted by sea and wind, the magic whittled down, formed shiny rings. Fleur held out a hand and they dropped into her palm, warm from the sun. 

“They are too big,” Hermione said, gazing down curiously at the glowing rings. 

“They are for when we are older, silly,” Fleur explained. She held out a ring. “Here, so that I can find you.” 

Hermione took the ring. She knew in her heart of hearts that she would keep it always, near her heartbeat until the day she came home. 

Home to Fleur. 

“Hermione,” Fleur says. She touches the ring under Hermione’s shirt, near her heart, just as she had promised. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a glass bottle. Hermione looks and inside is a matching ring, nestled among tiny sea shells. 

Hermione struggles to speak, to right her whirling mind. “I -” 

“Hermione?” 

As if floating underwater, Hermione turns her head. Standing in the doorway is her mother, looking very old and very sad. 

But that’s not her mother, is it? 

“Who are you?” she demands, feels the floor swell under her. 

“Tea?” asks the woman who is not her mother, looking round the group. 

Hermione swallows. She opens her mouth, prepared to rage and rant and kick and throw everything in the bloody house. 

But she can’t. She looks into her eyes, at this woman who has raised her, who has soothed her, held her and loved her. And she sighs. 

“I’ll get the kettle,” she says. 

She leaves the room, not daring to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea has been swirling around in the toilet of my brain for a bit and I just couldn't resist any longer. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> P.S. For the gamers out there.... LAST OF US 2 June 19! *swoons and exits body*


	2. Chapter 2

The tea is hot and scalding, but Hermione drinks it anyway, melting the roof of her mouth. Her eyes are on Bill. He is standing close to Fleur, too close. Hand on the counter behind her, his shoulder cupping her back. He looks at Fleur and Fleur looks at Hermione and Hermione decides she can't look at anyone. 

Her lips twist, a harsh pull in her stomach, and she drops her eyes to the table. 

What is it to her, how close he stands? There’s obviously something there, and it isn’t any business of hers. She doesn’t know these people. She doesn’t even know herself.

She shouldn’t look at her, but Fleur is so nice to look at. The intensity of her, the single-minded focus directed Hermione’s way. She means something, in a way Hermione doesn’t yet understand.

Who is she kidding? She is 19 years old and she works at a bloody seafood shack. She is no one. A shadow just like all the other shadows. Nothing special, no destiny to her. Just a future of less and a hope of more. 

Daydreams, like soap bubbles kissing her lips. She touches the ring on the chain around her neck.

Sitting across from Hermione, her not mother, Marina, watches. She sighs. 

Let her go, she thinks. 

But it’s hard, leaves her feeling bloody and beaten. Hermione was hers for 12 years. She was there for her first kite, her first day of school. Her first dance, her first heartbreak. Driver’s licence, graduation. All the joy, all the uncertainties, the tears, the laughs. Years of it, woven tightly around her fingers. 

Beansy clambers up onto the table. He dangles his legs, smiling happily as he takes Hermione’s fingers in his hand. 

“Miss should be happy,” Beansy says. “Beansy knew there was magic here. Miss glows with it.” 

“You’re very kind, Beansy,” Hermione says, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “But I think you might be mistaken.” 

“No,” Marina says, looking down at her hands. “He’s right, love. You don’t belong here.” 

“Who are you?” It is Fleur who speaks. Her voice is cut with emotion, shimmering with restrained anger. 

“No one, no one at all,” Marina replies. She looks to Hermione. “You don’t remember much yet, do you?” 

Hermione shakes her head. 

“They told me that you would never remember. I guess they didn’t account for her.” She gestures to Fleur, who bristles and scowls. “You were born to Muggle parents, love. That’s a non-magical. Something happened. I don’t know what, but it couldn’t have been happy. You were brought to me when you were a child. Just a little thing, freckled and sleeping. They put a charm on you, changed your appearance, blocked your memories. Bound your magic.” 

“Who?” Harry asks, speaking for the first time. “Who brought her to you?” 

Marina shakes her head. “I won’t tell you.” 

“And why not?” Hermione asks, leaning forward. There is anger in her voice, impatience. “Is this really the time for secrets?” 

“I can’t, love. I swore it. I vowed.” 

“You are a Squib,” Fleur says suddenly. “There’s not a drop of magic to you.” 

“You cut to the quick, don’t you?” Marina gives a bitter smile. “Yes, Veela. I am a Squib. And you are an arsehole.” 

Fleur has the grace to blush. 

“It means I can’t use magic,” Marina supplies, noting Hermione’s confusion. “My parents were magical, but I am not.”

“Magic.” Hermione says it slowly, rolling the word around in her mouth. If it weren’t for the elf clinging to her hand, she would laugh. 

“You have it. It’s here,” Marina leans forward, tapping Hermione’s chest. “It’s locked. But it’s there nonetheless.” 

“Why? Oh, wait. Let me guess. You can’t tell me that either.” 

Marina smiles. 

“This all very interesting,” Bill says suddenly. “But it’s not really anything to us. We should be going.” 

“Oh, it’s something alright,” Marina says, her eyes on Fleur. “You made it something when you stepped through the door.” 

“Window, actually,” Harry quips. He pushes himself away from his perch against the wall. “Bill is right. We should be taking the little one and going.” He hesitates, his eyes on Hermione. “I can come back if you like? Believe it or not, I was like you once. Didn’t understand a blasted thing people kept spewing at me. Maybe I could answer some questions for you.” 

“I -” She hesitates, uncertain. But his eyes are kind, his smile soft. “I would like that. Maybe knock, though?” 

He laughs, giving a cheeky wink. 

It is Fleur who hesitates, lingering as Harry takes Beansy’s hand. Bill gives a cold eyed stare over his shoulder as he leaves. Fleur steps close and looks down at Hermione, a nervous quirk to her lips. She shoots an impatient frown at Marina, the older woman simply smiling and spreading her hands over the table top. 

“I wish I could stay.” Fleur says. 

“Why?” Hermione reaches into her shirt, pulling out the ring. It is warm from her skin. “What is this?” 

Fleur shakes her head. “It’s not something I can simply say is this or that. You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Oh, bullshit,” Hermione snaps. “I remember you. You knew me. Who was I?” 

Fleur’s smile is sad, distant. “You were a very sweet little girl who stole my heart.” 

“Okay. Cute. But vague.” 

“You will be getting a lot of that, I’m afraid. Goodbye, Hermione.” 

“Wait.” Hermione catches her hand. She is surprised by her own boldness, but she doesn’t pull away. “Will I see you again?” 

A heartbeat, two, and Fleur smiles. “You couldn’t keep me away.” 

Hermione lets out a breath and watches her go, trying to ignore the emptiness in her chest. And then she is alone with her mother. She looks at her, at her sad eyes. An hour ago, a look like that from her would have devastated her. Now it makes her angry, leaves her spoiling for a fight.

“Hermione -” 

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione says. She pauses in the doorway, allowing her eyes to catch with Marina’s. “Are you sorry at all?” 

“No.” Marina says. “It was necessary.” 

Hermione nods once. And she is gone, disappearing up the stairs. 

A week goes by and nothing happens. Nothing changes. There is no divine bolt of destiny from the clouds, imbuing her with greatness and power. Her mum says nothing, and she says nothing. She begins to wonder if she dreamed it. 

But the ring. It stays warm, even when it is on her bedside table. She often finds herself toying with it. Removing it from the chain and wearing it on her finger. Spinning it, twisting it, her mind a fluid thing as she searches back, tries to remember. 

Alas, she remembers very little. But she does remember a silver haired girl, blushing and pressing a sticky kiss to her cheek. Sometime before that, meeting for the first time. Nothing as dramatic and heart wrenching as one would suspect, merely a simple request of “May I borrow your shovel?” The tiny plastic shovel was handed over, a sand castle built, and a friendship cemented. 

She can’t remember what her parents looked like. She tries, closing her eyes, turning herself into a pen point that traces, sketches. But they are blank. They have faces yes, but the shapes are lost to her. No color of lips, no inkling of an eye, of a freckle or a mole. 

She searches for them in her own face. Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, the door locked, leaning towards the glass. 

It is a new face. But it is old, she reminds herself. Just new to her. 

She traces her lips, her cheekbones. Brushes a knuckle over her eyebrows. Smooths fingers along her jaw. Counts the freckles on her nose, the splashes of gold amidst the brown in her eyes. 

Whose eyes are they? she wonders. Her mother or her father? Whose mouth, so subtly formed? Whose smile? Whose frown? Who gave her this face, this uncertain ancestry? Were they kind? Did they love one another? Love her? 

Ah, the heart of it. Did they love her? 

She aches and she thinks she might cry. But she doesn’t. She blinks those eyes she doesn’t know and firms her jaw, lets out a shaky breath.

Harry Potter, with impeccable timing, finds her on an off day. She is on the pier amidst the ruckus of the carnival, legs dangling above the water, watching gulls swoop from up high, only to veer up, a catch wriggling in their talons.

She knows him instantly, his face still fresh in her mind. He gives a friendly wave, saying something to a pair on either side of him; a boy and a girl, both with bright red hair and the densest scattering of freckles Hermione has ever seen. They are dressed normally, (or should she say as Muggles) not a robe or a wand in sight.

“This is Ron,” Harry introduces them. “And this is Ginny.” 

“Hello,” Ginny says, smiling. She seizes Hermione’s hand, giving it a rigorous, shoulder rattling shake. “We already know your name. Harry’s told us loads about you.” 

“Really now?” 

“Ehm, well I don’t really know ‘loads’ about you,” he says. “But I did mention a bit.” 

“Hi,” Ron says. He doesn’t shake her hand, instead flushing and staring at something over her shoulder. 

They join her on the pier, leaning out to watch the waves crash against wooden legs supporting the structure. 

“How do you feel?” Harry asks.

“Wow. I dunno. Excited? Foolish? Angry?” 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

She considers. “No, not really. Tell me about you. Tell me about your world.” 

Tell me about that beautiful woman that haunts my dreams. 

“I don’t know where to start,” Harry says, looking out over the sea. 

Hermione leans back on her hands, turning her face to the sun. She closes her eyes. “Wherever you like.” 

He tells her everything. From the beginning. His hands dance as he speaks, drawing the story of his life with jabs and slashes and flourishes. Year by year, every trial, every betrayal, every triumph. She listens, shimmering between disbelief, laughter and heartache. At the end of it, she stares at the trio before her and laughs. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, waving a hand weakly. “Don’t take offense. I just...wow. Where the hell were the adults during all this?” 

“Conveniently absent,” Ginny comments. 

“And this Voldemort, he’s really dead this time?” 

“I really hope so,” Harry replies. 

“Well. Let me buy you a cotton candy. To thank you for saving the world and all.” 

Harry’s neck flushes and he looks away, suddenly bashful. “It wasn’t like that, really.” 

“Yes it was,” Ron says. “I’ll take you up on that offer, Hermione.” 

By the time they walk up the boardwalk, night has fallen and everything is brightly lit, flashing in neon and fireworks. They mingle with the crowd, Hermione making good on her offer and the foursome wandering off with sticky fingers and sugar sweet tongues. 

The night passes too quickly. They eat and shout, and chase each other through the sand, tackling each other into the briny sea. She sits, water and salt drying stiff against her skin and talks with Harry, fireworks exploding over their heads. A little ways away, someone plays music. Ginny shouts, seizing her by the hand and pulling to her feet. She wraps her arms around Hermione’s neck and they dance, laughing as they try to learn how they fit together. They drift apart as Ron joins them, proudly depositing a hilariously large stuffed panda into Hermione’s arms.

“I won that,” he tells her. 

“It’s, uh, it’s lovely.” 

“Like you,” he says. 

She winces. “Oh, boy. Listen, Ron. I’m not really looking for a, ah, a friend of that sort.” 

“What sort?” 

“She doesn’t want to snog you,” Ginny supplies helpfully. 

“Oh. You don’t?” 

“Not in the least.” 

He shrugs. “Fair enough. Keep the panda, though. I don’t know what to do with the bloody thing.” 

She is barely on her feet by the time she stumbles through her front door. She dumps Ron’s hard won panda into a chair and falls stiff legged onto the couch. She groans into the cushions. But she is smiling and she can’t seem to stop, her entire body warm and glowing. 

“Hermione.” 

She groans loudly. “Mum.” 

“Hermione.” 

Sighing, she turns her head, grudgingly opening her eyes. 

Marina stands in the doorway, a fond look in her eyes. But next to her is a woman Hermione has never met. She is very tall, wearing specs, her dark hair pinned up, her inquisitive eyes watching Hermione with something that borders amusement. 

Hermione sits up. She frowns, gripping the couch cushions. “Hello.” 

“Ms. Granger. A pleasure. My name is Minerva McGonagall. I’m a Professor.” 

Hermione eyes flicker uncertainly. 

“I’m here to talk to you about your education, Ms. Granger. And to see what we can’t do about that little problem of yours.” 

“Oh.” 

The Professor raises her eyebrows and Hermione wants to disappear. 

You eloquent woman, you. 

“Will you speak with me?” Professor McGonagall asks. 

“Will you tell me the truth?” 

“Nothing but,” the Professor promises. 

Hermione pats the couch beside her and McGonagall smiles. 

The morning light is clean and critical. 

“This way, Ms. Granger.” 

She can’t move. She is too busy staring slack jawed at a floating baby hippo. The animal turns its head, ears flickering, mournful eyes watering. 

Take me home, it seems to say. 

“Would you like to live in my garden?” Hermione asks. She scratches the adorable creature behind an ear and it lets out a satisfied breath. 

“You like the cute baby animals?” says a voice. 

The man is small, flinty eyed, mustache flowing like a train track diverting villain. Hermione nearly punches him in the throat as he moves to open his robes. But he only shows her pockets lined with potions and stuffed with all manner of odd things, from dried insects to feathers and what appears to be shriveled bat feet. 

“I have everything,” the little man says confidently. He taps a glowing potion. “This one, it makes you fly. And this one, it makes the apple of your eye fall to their knees.” 

“Not a fan of apples, thanks.” 

“What about bananas?” 

“Excuse you?” 

He pulls a bunch of brightly yellow bananas from somewhere in his robes. He grins, raising an eyebrow. 

“She is not interested,” McGonagall says, materializing at her elbow. “Do keep up, Ms. Granger. I cannot abide tardiness.” 

“Sorry,” Hermione murmurs, turning to follow the witch. She gives the mustached villain a final glare and he grins, waving the bananas in farewell. 

“This is Diagon Alley,” McGonagall explains, leading a gawking Hermione down narrow streets crowded with bustling men and women. “The best shopping to be had. One can find anything and everything if one knows where to look. This way, Ms. Granger.” 

They turn round a sharp bend, McGonagall stopping short in front of a chipped green door. Mouth pursed, McGonagall gives it a hard rap. They wait. Hermione looks down at a puddle, the oddly slim buildings around them reflected and bent across its brown surface. 

The green door cracks open. A nose pokes out. A very long nose. Attached to a face, one would assume, but there is only the long, curved humanoid beak. No face.

“Bugger off!” hisses a voice. 

“I have an appointment,” McGonagall says. 

“No appointments today. Piss off!” 

The nose withdraws. Going under the assumption that somewhere among the nose’s anatomy there are arms, and perhaps even attached to those theoretical arms are hands, the nose attempts to close the door. Only to be defeated by McGonagall’s very sensible shoe shoved between the door and the frame. 

“I have an appointment. Be a dear and check, won’t you?” 

A hiss, the nose’s mouth practically frothing with irritation. 

“You wait here.” 

McGonagall looks to her charge, giving an unamused sniff. “Goblins, Ms. Granger. A ruder creature you will never encounter.” 

The door swings open. 

“Come on then,” the nose hisses. 

Inside it is very dark. Hermione takes a moment to acclimate, blinking her eyes. 

Standing no higher than her knee is the nose. The nose is in fact attached to a body. A bristling, brightly dressed body. Large, murderously sharp teeth beneath the impressive snoot, pointed ears on either side of an angular head. Large hands and feet. 

“Up the stairs,” the goblin says, pointing a gnarled hand. “And mind the cats!” 

For there are cats everywhere, on every possible surface, eyes reflecting the little light shed by dripping candles. They are strangely silent, watching. 

Up the stairs McGonagall and Hermione go, tip toeing around the stretching paws, the stray tails. They turn left down a long hall, a window glowing eerily at the end. 

“Left,” the goblin snaps. “First door.” 

More light here, and fewer cats. 

There are shelves, heavy, beautiful mahogany shelves lined with all manner of strange instruments. Glass is most common, ghostly shapes floating in aged darkened liquid. A massive desk dominates the space, littered with loose parchment and ragged quills. A comfy looking pair of padded armchairs sit in front of it, wooden legs sunk deep into the green rug. 

Behind the desk sits a woman. She has a distinct odor of tobacco smoke. Perhaps because, champed between her teeth, glowing and emitting vast clouds of grey smoke, is a long stemmed pipe. She has a pointy hat on her head, cocked at a jaunty angle. Perched on the bridge of her nose are thick glasses, giving her eyes the appearance of being thrice their normal size. 

And sitting in one of the arm chairs, legs crossed, is none other than Fleur Delacour. She is expressionless, but her eyes all but burn in the dimness of the room.

McGonagall does not smile. She inclines her head once and takes a seat in the spare arm chair. 

Fleur stands, giving a gesture for Hermione to sit. 

Hermione wants to cross her arms and scowl. She wants to stomp from the room, out of this odd little world, and back to her quiet life. A life where beautiful, intense women are only dreamed of and never encountered at Dick’s Crab n Go. A life where everything is a routine and nothing is unexpected and the garbage bins are emptied on Thursdays. 

“We’re waiting on you, Ms. Granger,” McGonagall eyeing Hermione over the rims of her specs. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, taking Fleur’s vacated seat. 

Is that a smirk she catches in the corner of Fleur’s mouth? Is there something funny? Something on her face? Has she worn her shirt inside out?

“So this is her,” says the witch on the other side of the desk. She blinks her magnified eyes and curls her lips. “Doesn’t look like much to me.” 

“This is Veralda Bickles,” McGonagall says. “A foremost expert on your particular condition.” 

“The foremost expert,” Bickles corrects. “Though, I can’t say I’ve had the displeasure of encountering bound magic in many, many years. It’s a barbaric practice. Rarely done and greatly shunned.” 

“But it is reversible?” Hermione asks. 

“Aye, a bit of blood and your firstborn, and I can give you your precious magic.” Bickles cackles at the revulsion that spreads over Hermione’s face. “I’m joking, child. Ha ha? Funny? Do you have a sense of humor anywhere in those scowls?” 

The nerve…

She is a fingernail from verbally assaulting the witch. She is confused, a roiling pit of anxiety and nerves, and she can’t find the patience to be mocked. Her brows dip in anger, a sharp word coming to her tongue, when a hand settles on her shoulder, staying her reaction. Fleur touches her, squeezing gently, the cuff of her robe brushing against her neck.

Hermione takes a breath, shooting Bickles a flippant smile. “Ha ha.” 

Bickles cackles again, smoke rolling from her mouth. “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me. How strange all this must be for you. I shouldn’t poke fun. Shall we be friends?” 

Hermione nods, not trusting her voice.

“Lovely. Now, my dear child. It is a relatively painless process. You will feel cold and a bit...ehm, eggy. Scambled.” 

Scrambled does not sound painless. 

“Stand, stand,” Bickles says, standing herself. She moves to the center of the room, scuffing her foot over the wooden floor. She licks her finger, holding it up as if testing the air. She hums to herself. Reaching into her faded robes, she withdraws a bit of red chalk. Tongue stuck between her teeth, she draws a pentagram on the floor. 

“Pass me that skull would you?” 

Fleur does. 

Bickles sets it in the center of the pentagram. Giving a satisfied chuff, she stands back, flicks her wand. The pentagram roars to life in a wall of flame. 

“Now we’re cooking!” Bickles shouts. “Come, girl. Time to meet your master.” 

Hermione pales, staring at the flaming pentagram. “My what?” 

Bickles wheezes. She snorts. She coughs and cackles. She banishes the flames and the pentagram with a jab. 

“Only a joke, dear girl. Now, hold onto your knickers. This will be quite the ride.” 

With no further warning, she seizes Hermione’s forehead in her dry hand, gripping her skull with painful strength. She jams her wand tip into the girl’s chest, just where her heart beats. She speaks, in an old tongue lost to the common speech. 

Hermione is not surprised to find that Bickles has lied. It is painful. Very, very painful. 

A woman of literature and words, Hermione knows many ways to describe pain; ouch, fuck, shit, ow, holy god why, among them. But were she to write an essay, she would begin with the word ‘agony’. And still, even knowing exactly what that word means, it could not encapsulate the sheer pain that wracked through her body. So, aiming for extra credit, she would describe the profuse sweat that breaks out on her body. She would liken it to being beaten, soaked in gasoline, and lit on fire. She would draw a picture in the margins, a skinless anatomical depiction of the human body, targeting the brain, the stomach, and the chest as points of agony in its purest form. 

She would end it with ‘writhe’. 

Because that’s what she does. Connected to Bickles’ burning hand, she twists, tries to pull herself away. But Bickles has taken her over, forced her to her knees. She screams and her chest bursts and fire blooms behind her eyes. She tastes blood and loses herself, sucked down into darkness, desperately hiding from the pain ravaging her body. 

When Bickles opens her palm, the girl falls to the floor. She is still, only the flicker of her eyelids moving. 

Fleur is the first to reach her. She rushes forward, dropping to her knees at her side. She reaches for her, stops herself at the last second, fearful to touch her. Her skin is burning, emanating heat like fire from the center of the earth. 

Bickles, being an old hand, takes a cup of cold tea from her desk and splashes it in the girl’s face. Hermione comes to with a gasp and a shout, sitting up and sputtering. 

“Hermione.” Fleur says, reaching for her, still not touching her, her fingertips hovering an inch from her face. 

Hermione looks down at herself. She checks to make sure everything is still attached and she laughs. 

Bickles chuckles. She knows what the girl is feeling. The elevation, the euphoric rush of being, of existing, of containing something so strong and bright. Of being more than you were, than you ever dreamed. It's like dreaming of your creator, only to one day strike that divine architect down.

Burning, her senses amplified, Hermione reaches for the woman kneeling at her side. Her breath catches and she touches her lips, traces her fingers over her chin, down her throat. 

“It’s so much,” Hermione whispers. “I’ve never felt like this before.” 

She can’t stop looking at Fleur’s mouth. 

“Alright, don’t make me get the water hose,” Bickles says. “Take a step back, Veela. All that hoodoo of yours won’t do her any good with the state she’s in.” 

Fleur pretends not to hear. Her eyes are dark. She raises her hand, Hermione mirroring her. They don’t touch, their fingers trembling, their palms warming the air. The ring inside Hermione’s shirt is suddenly warm, burning hot even against her flushed skin. 

Fleur leans forward, her lips parting, her eyes flickering between Hermione’s mouth and eyes. Hermione moves to meet her, her eyes slipping closed, a feeling of bliss blanking her mind. 

“Ms. Granger!” 

Hermione’s eyes snap open at the tone. She blinks, clearing her throat as she becomes aware of herself, of her hands fisted in Fleur’s robes. The Veela doesn’t seem to mind, a small smile on her lips. She is pleased with herself, pleased with Hermione’s daring. 

Hermione releases Fleur with a frown, disgusted at her inability to control herself. She stands quickly, dusting her clothes free of cat hair and dust bunnies. 

“Drink this,” Bickles says, waving a smoking potion under Hermione’s nose. 

Hermione does. Gagging, chest heaving, she forces it down. 

“Good, good.” Bickles shoves her into a chair and retreats behind the desk. “There’s my bit done, Minny. Now you just have to teach the dunderhead to use the magic. Ha! Good luck with that!” 

“Teach me?” Hermione asks. 

“Well, we can’t loose you on the world like this,” McGonagall says. “You must learn, Ms. Granger. Without control, you could cause some very terrible things to happen.” 

“Anything,” Hermione says. “Teach me everything.” 

She can’t stop it, the excited smile that springs to her lips, makes her stomach flip and her heart beat faster. She feels the world opening up around her, secrets shivering just out of her reach. 

“Yes, well. One thing at a time, Ms. Granger. First thing, meet your tutor.” 

Fleur steps forward. She gives Hermione a slight bow, not bothering to keep the smirk from her face. 

Hermione’s stomach drops like a body sealed in cement. “You’re kidding.” 

Bickles chuckles and lights her pipe. She puffs and her eyes glow. 

“Plot twist,” she says happily. “How about that?” 

Fleur smiles innocently.


	3. Chapter 3

Bill’s hand is on Fleur’s arm. 

Hermione can’t stop staring at it. The way his fingers splay against her skin. Familiar. As if he has touched her a thousand times and he will again countless times more. She swallows, trying very hard to keep the curl of anger from her face. 

It’s not her place, is it? Jealously is ugly, and really, what does she have to be jealous of? Where is her right? Fleur is a stranger. A beautiful, addictive stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. 

She can’t shake the feeling that there is something between them. Like a dream half remembered, bleary and out of focus, but the impression is there, and it makes her ache to think of it. Her stomach feels pitched and churned and she is circling the entrance to the Underworld, where everything is a shade and there is no sensation, just the remembrance of living. 

Fleur nods, listening to Bill. Her eyes are steady on his, but her lips are compressed, something stubborn about the line of her jaw. 

He touches her hair and his gaze is tender. Hermione feels sick. Her palms are suddenly clammy and she can’t look. She turns away. 

Only a moment later, she feels Fleur at her side, standing so close that she can smell her. She smells like soap and fresh laundry and everything that makes a moonlit night beautiful. 

“You will need a wand,” Fleur says. “If you follow me, I can take you to Ollivander’s.” 

Hermione still can’t look at her. She is afraid if she does she will touch her. And Fleur is not hers to touch. 

“I can find it on my own.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know your way around. Let me -” 

“I can find it on my own,” Hermione says again, allowing a trace of annoyance to slip into her tone. 

A pause. 

“Very well,” Fleur says. “In that case, I think you can also find yourself to your first lesson tomorrow. Here is a list of things you will need. Professor McGonagall took the liberty of opening an account for you at Gringotts and asked that I pass along a sum of it.” 

Fleur pauses and Hermione can feel the intensity of her stare. She wants to crumble. She wants to look into her eyes and tell her that she is feeling everything too strongly and too quickly, and is she feeling it too? 

But she doesn’t. She stares straight ahead, holding out her hand for the list of necessities and the modest pouch of coin.

“We will begin this on familiar ground for you,” Fleur says. “Meet me by The Crags, near your home. 7AM sharp. Can you do that?” 

Oh, the nerve of the woman. The absolute blatant arrogance. 

“Fine.” Hermione says. 

She finds herself standing alone in a crowd, staring wistfully after at a flash of silver hair. 

Don’t be a tosser, she thinks to herself. She’s not worth it. 

Isn’t she, though? 

She finds Ollivander's after quite a bit of walking and a good set of directions from a very kindly witch. She hesitates outside, eyeing the storefront dubiously. She senses she is on the cusp of something, as if there is but one final step before she can no longer turn back. 

She opens the door. 

The man behind the counter is very old, his eyes pale, his hair a colorless fall on his shoulders. He gives a little nod to Hermione, a dip of acknowledgement, of curiosity. 

She is not sure what to say. 

Hullo, sir. Your best pointy stick, please. 

Seeing her uncertainty, he saves her the trouble. 

“I have a feeling you’ve come to just the right place,” he tells her. “I see you have no wand on your person. Might I be of service?” 

She gives an awkward shift, shuffling to the counter. “You’ve read me right, sir. It’s only, I’m a bit lost.” 

“Aren’t we all.” His smile holds no humor. “May I measure your arms Miss…?” 

“Granger.” 

“Ms. Granger.” Still with that eerie smile. “May I?” 

She submits to his measuring tape and his cold, dry fingers. He does not speak further, only allowing little noises of concentration as he works. He examines her thoroughly, from the pads of her fingers to the length of her legs. 

“I think you will be an easy one,” he comments, disappearing round back of the counter. There is the sound of shifting boxes sliding over the wood shelves. He returns with a lone box, setting it with the gentlest care on the counter. He beckons her closer. “Vine wood. A contradiction, really, embodying both happiness and wrath. The strongest of our emotions, wouldn't you say? 10¾, unyeilding. Much like the witch, I would guess.” 

Hermione stares down into the box at the wand nestled inside. She traces the dark vines raised and knotted over the surface of the dark wood. 

“Go on,” Ollivander urges, his pale eyes glowing. “Pick it up.” 

She does. It’s kismet. Her fingers touch the wood and she feels a spark snap between her fingers, a catch of breath in her chest. Eyes widening, she holds the wand and watches as dark red smoke swirls from the tip. 

Ollivander claps, delight plain on his face. “I do love it when I get it right on the first go. It’s like starlight mixed with your ale; perfection.” 

Hermione knows nothing of ale or starlight in ale, but she knows this is the wand for her. She gives a happy smile that Ollivander returns.

The rest of the afternoon is spent acquiring the reading listed on the parchment Fleur gave her, adding bits and bobs of other needed supplies. By the time she returns home, she is over laden and overheated, but astoundingly light of heart. It is with a happy sigh and an eager eye that she settles herself on the couch and sets to reading. 

She begins with art and history, believing the subjects the best educators of a new culture. She finds herself quickly drawn in. She loses time, not noticing the moon as it rises high in the sky. She is so deeply engrossed that she at first doesn’t hear the tapping on the window. It is only as her neck aches and she gives a back snapping stretch that she looks up. 

And nearly dies as she sees a pale face peering in at her. She screams loudly, the book in her hands flying into the air and landing with a flutter of pages on the floor. 

“Sorry,” Harry Potter mouths, giving a sheepish wince. 

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” Hermione says, opening the door and ushering him in. 

“Sorry. You looked, ehm, intent.” 

She gestures and they sit, Hermione curling up on the end of the couch, Harry slumping into its center. 

“First lesson with Fleur tomorrow, I hear,” Harry comments. 

Her eyes narrow. “How is that so many people know what’s happening when I am completely clueless?” 

He chuckles. “Small community. And really, you’re all the talk. The girl who doesn’t remember who she is...an enigma.” 

“And a mouthful.” 

His smile is disarming. “I actually came to see if you might like to learn a bit of magic before tomorrow. Get a leg up, so to speak.” 

She leans forward and her eyes burn. “You have my attention.” 

They start off small; levitation of light objects, illuminating their wands. Hermione is quick to learn and Harry an excellent teacher. But, being a man of a mischievous nature, he doesn’t stick to practicality. He also has an ulterior motive. He is intent on showing Hermione all the best ways to put Fleur off her stride. 

He shows her how to erect a shield. She finds it difficult, certainly more so than levitating couch cushions. And so the shield is not very strong, but it is serviceable. 

“You have to keep eye contact with this next bit,” Harry explains. 

Looking deeply into Fleur’s eyes? Nothing could be easier. 

“You have to be focused.” 

She is absolute iron. 

“Langlock is what you say,” he says. “Now, look at me. And don’t be afraid. It’s lift-able.” 

She looks at him. 

He taps her on the nose with his wand. “Langlock! Now, try to speak.” 

She tries. But it’s as if her tongue has been nailed to the roof of her mouth. It feels stiff and unwieldy and doesn’t respond. 

Harry grins. “Just like that. She’s very mouthy, so if she irritates you, bingo. Instant peace.” 

He lifts the jinx and Hermione swallows thickly, finding her mouth suddenly flooded with an uncomfortable amount of saliva. 

“Should you really be encouraging me to jinx someone much stronger and more experienced than myself?” Hermione asks. 

“It’s all a bit of fun. But she is sure to be as spooty as a coppercrab, so be sure to put that shield up. I doubt you can do much against her, but it’s sure to piss her right off.” 

Strangely, the idea of angering Fleur is attractive. She would love to see her composure crack, to see a bit of fury amidst all that calm in her eyes. 

“You’re a good friend,” she tells Harry. 

He gives a little bow. “I aim to please.” 

The Crags sit at the edge of the sea, a sheer drop off into the crashing green waters below. There are grottos worn from thousands of years worth of sea salt and water erosion carved into its face. It is spiny and ragged and it smells of seaweed and foam and sun dried salt. 

Hermione is on time. Fleur is early. 

They stand across from one another, a hard tension grating between them, a frisson cold between their gazes. 

Fleur is the first to speak. “This is not going to work if you don’t trust me.” 

Dumping her bag to the ground, Hermione stands with her feet apart, her shoulders squared. She looks ready to fight, eager for it. 

“Trust,” she says softly. “I should trust you. When I barely know you. And you seem to know me quite well. So well that I have a ring that burns every time you are near. Yet, somehow, you don’t think I need to know why.” 

“It is not a matter of telling you. It is a matter of you understanding. You won’t understand anything I try to tell you until you understand how our world works.” 

“Your world. It’s not mine.” 

“It will be. If you would accept it and stop acting like a child.” 

Hermione sputters. “A child?” 

Fleur’s arms cross and her eyebrow raises. “This is the impression you give me.” 

“Oh, you arrogant -” 

Now both Fleur’s eyebrows raise. 

“Bitchy -” 

Fleur’s lips purse. 

“Secretive -” 

That part isn’t untrue at least. 

“Diabolical -” 

Really now?

“Thick headed arsehole!” 

Hermione learns her first lesson of the day; very simply, do not fuck with Fleur. 

Fleur points her wand. Next thing Hermione knows, she is bound in impossibly thin ropes and she is falling face first towards the ground. She can’t even cry for help for she finds, of all things, a gag clenched tightly between her teeth. Fleur, being not entirely without mercy, catches her and holds her steady. She dips her head to look into her furious eyes, smiling. 

“I think I like you better like this,” Fleur says. “You’re very prickly. I can’t think why. Maybe it’s all those pesky raging hormones, hm?” 

Hermione is so furious she could chew through wood. But not a cloth gag, apparently. 

“I will forgive you just this once,” Fleur continues. “We will chalk it up to a misunderstanding and start over. But, I have to be plain with you, Hermione. My patience is thin, especially for quarrelsome students. So I ask you to behave. Otherwise you can explain to Professor McGonagall why I’ve had to turn you into a chicken.” 

A chicken? A bloody chicken?

Fleur hasn’t stopped smiling. “Ah, I can see you’re not very calm yet. So I’m going to lay you here and let you cool off. I would hate for you to say something you might regret.” 

Carefully, cupping the back of Hermione’s head, Fleur lays her on the ground. She settles down next to her, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles. She begins to talk. Not as if she is speaking to a wiggling and enraged girl, but to a friend as they watch the sky and dream up shapes in the clouds. 

There’s not a hitch to her words, flowing smoothly from one topic to the next, explaining the basics of magic, its usages, how to use it, when to use. The difference between dark and light magic. She gives an abbreviation of government, running down the long list of departments and the responsibilities of each.

Somewhere between the furious struggling and Fleur’s warm voice, Hermione calms. Maybe it’s her love of learning, or maybe it’s something a bit more visceral, like the effect of Fleur’s voice on her stomach. Listening to her is like laying in a patch of sun on your living room floor with your favorite music filling up the air around you. Warmth, a deep, satisfied contentment as you watch the ceiling fan whirl, wiggling your socked feet in time with the music. 

She is rain and Hermione is a drought ridden field, packed earth eager for a bit of life to trickle over her parched tongue. 

Fleur notices when Hermione’s mood calms and releases her. She does it with a gesture and continues to speak. She watches her from the corner of her eye, watches her pull her legs against her chest, resting her cheek against her knees. Her eyes are incredibly warm, the ease of her brow a relief. 

There she is. The girl she used to know. The girl whose soul glowed as brightly as her smile. The girl who stole her heart with a grin and barely any effort. 

She misses that girl. But she wants very desperately to know this one. This bristling, confused knot of nerves and anxiety. She wants to untangle her, to smooth her edges and calm her frantic heart. She wants to sink with her, to simply exist alongside her. 

But it’s never what they tell you. All the songs, the books, the poems; they describe a fast, hard fall. Feelings that swell, that overwhelm. You collide, you make everything bright. You fall apart, you come back together. And then it’s done. The song is over and you’ve found love and everything is right with the world. 

It is more than that. It is unexpected and as beautiful as rain falling even as the sun shines. But it isn’t easy. It is a word, a feverish longing, daydreams on cloudy days, and fantasies at the quietest hour of night. 

She is terribly afraid that she isn’t good enough. 

“That is enough for today,” she says finally, chancing a glance at Hermione’s smooth face. 

Hermione merely nods. She takes a deep breath, her chest swelling, exhaling sharply. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Hermione says. “You’ve been very kind and I haven’t. Forgive me?” 

She holds out her hand, palm up. 

Fleur looks from her palm to her eyes and feels herself drown. As if she could ever deny this girl anything. She could ask for the sun and she would bring it back to her in pieces, wrapped in dew and moonlight. 

Their hands touch and they smile. 

“Before I forget.” Fleur reaches into her robes, withdrawing a small box. She sets it into Hermione’s hand with a smile. “Be careful. They can get away from you.” 

Running her fingers along the blue and gold box, Hermione gives it a careful stare. “What is it?” 

“A chocolate frog.” 

There is a ribbit from inside of the box and Hermione startles. 

“And you eat it like that?” 

“It’s delicious. Like you.” 

For the briefest of moments, Fleur’s mouth is pressed against her shoulder. Not kissing, just a gentle pressure of a sharp chin and smiling lips. 

Fleur withdraws, standing. “Same time and place tomorrow. Try to wear something comfortable. You will find I will not be so gentle.” 

Her shoulder on fire where Fleur’s mouth touched her, Hermione can only give a dazed nod. She watches her leave.

Bringing the chocolate frog box up to her mouth, she whispers “Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you.” 

The frog inside gives a ribbit of gratitude.


	4. Chapter 4

There is something truly horrifying about breaking someone’s heart. Especially when it is in favor of your own. 

Fleur watches Bill, watches his face change. The smile slips from his lips, a coldness settling around his pupils. There is a subtle shift to his shoulders, a sinking. He licks his lips. 

“Is it her?” He asks. 

She wants to tell him that he has no right, that her heart and her time and her will are her own. But that isn’t it. She is defensive because she is selfish. Because she values her own happiness more than his. Because she wants _her_ more than him. 

He breaks and she breaks with him. She can’t bear to touch him, afraid he will shatter in her hands. She is afraid of what she might feel, of the pain radiating from him, infectious and bitter, tasting of burning metal and despair. 

The truth of it is that she has always known. But she was weak and lonely and everything was a bleak ice over the world. He gave her hope, warmed her. Reminded her that her heart was still very much alive, beating and blooming like a rose under the pale light of the moon. She meant to keep her distance, she did. But then he smiled. He smelled like crushed pine nettles and his hands fit perfectly around her waist. She never stood a chance. 

And Bill, poor Bill knew. She told him. Very clearly, holding the dim ring in the center of her palm. But surely it was a myth, wasn’t it? There is no such thing as fate. Nothing so powerful as to transcend the walls of simple, logical reality. It’s the stuff of stories, of wistful thinking. The ring was ordinary and hardly worth a thought. 

But that night, standing beside them, he felt it. He saw it in the way that they looked at each other. Not once in the years that he had known had Fleur ever looked at him like that. Like she wanted him more than she wanted breath in her lungs or blood in her veins. Like he was the beginning and the end and nothing else mattered. That was for her.

And he knew. In the deepest marrow of his bones, in the quietest room in his heart. 

He clears his throat, pushing away the rough words he wants to say. “How do you know she wants you, Fleur? A stranger staking a claim on her, ownership. You think she will like that?” 

“I would never force her.” Her vehemence is surprising, sharp against the skin of his cheeks. “I will wait. As I always have done.” 

He can’t help it. He snickers. “Is that what you were doing when I fucked you? Waiting?” 

Her arms cross. “Ignorance does not become you.” 

“You’re a real bitch, you know that? Where is your heart?” 

She doesn’t need to speak. He sees it, swirling with the fury and the darkness. 

My heart isn’t yours. 

He shrugs. “I’ll live. But I hope you rot. And I hope she breaks your fucking heart.” 

And he is gone. Door slamming, his things cleared away from her things. The room seems oddly bare, as faded as a half remembered dream. She sits in the last remaining chair and sighs, her eyes drifting over the walls, tracing the places where their smiling pictures used to be. 

Time. Time to think and time to be and time to mourn. 

There is a hiding spot in the rocks of The Crags. There are dozens more exactly like it dotted among the cracks and fissures, but this is hers. Hermione kneels next to it, dipping her hand inside. She pulls out a small wooden box. It is very old, the lid scared, the clasp tarnished, the edges chipped. And inside is a watch. No band, just a face with broken glass. The hands are stopped on 3:10. Engraved on the back is "Sonnet 27".

She knows it by heart, has traced her fingertips over the words on a worn page a thousand times.

_Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,  
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;  
But then begins a journey in my head,  
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:  
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)  
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,  
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,  
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:  
Save that my soul's imaginary sight  
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,  
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,  
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.  
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,  
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

“This was your father’s,” Marina told her years ago, sliding the watch across the table. “You should have something to remember him by.” 

Stroking the broken face, she felt something from the watch, some old phantom pain, a dark twist in her chest. 

“Who was he?” she asked, looking up. 

“When you’re older, I’ll tell you.” 

And yet she is much older and still no wiser. No wiser as to who her father is. No wiser even to the face that loved him so much to think of him with Shakespeare wrapped around their tongue. 

She snaps the box closed and slips the watch into her pocket. She is standing when she hears gravel shifting beneath shoes. She turns, expecting to see Fleur, but instead finds Harry and Ginny smiling and waving. 

“Day trip!” Harry announces happily. 

“Oh, but Fleur -” 

“Sick,” Ginny says reaching out to lock their arms together. “Mumblebumps.” 

“Mumble what?” 

“Exactly.” 

Hermione blinks. “I feel as if you’re making fun of me.” 

“Not at all,” Ginny says, grinning. 

“You’re in for a treat,” Harry says. “Fleur wants you to get a bit of exposure. And Gin and I can think of absolutely nowhere better than Hogsmeade.” 

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

“You are an excellent pupil,” Harry says. 

“You’re going to feel a bit ill,” Ginny says, tightening her arm. “Hang on and don’t breathe. If you do, your lungs will explode.” 

Alarmed, Hermione opens her mouth to protest. Harry locks onto her other arm. 

“And close your eyes,” he whispers. “Wouldn't want them to melt.” 

And with that, Hermione gaping and very much breathing, they snap, their bodies condensing to matter and an indignant squawk, sucked from the chilled sea air and shoved with stomach churning speed through what feels like a thin drinking straw. 

Her feet hit the ground with tremendous force and she nearly buckles. Ginny and Harry hold her tightly, keeping her upright. 

Checking Hermione’s stunned face, Ginny laughs. She swipes a thumb over Hermione’s left eyebrow. 

“Oops,” she says. “Looks like we left something behind.” 

Harry checks her, his own eyebrows raised. “Ah, yeah. Missing a bit on the end there.” 

“What?!” 

“It’s only a smidge,” Ginny assures her. “Surely you won’t miss it?” 

“My eyebrow!”

“Could have been your face,” Harry says.

“Ick,” Ginny says. “Then everyone would call you Coldmeats Granger. Because you would look like a shredded turkey sandwich.” 

Hermione disentangles herself from the cackling pair with a huff and a glare. 

“I don’t find any of this amusing,” she says. 

“That’s alright,” Ginny laughs. “We do.” 

It’s raining in Hogsmeade. Hard, sharp drops that drench them quickly and send them scurrying to the nearest shelter. Which, to Hermione’s vast delight, happens to be Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop. In apology for nicking Hermione’s eyebrow, Ginny presents the scowling girl with a lovely quill, tickling her nose as she does. Harry drags her by the hand to Honeydukes, happily chatting away about the virtues of Berties Bott’s Every Flavor Bean. Inside, Hermione carefully chooses an orange bean, foolishly thinking orange is a safe color. Certainly more dependable than green or grey. 

She is sadly mistaken. The bean tastes not of citrus or anything remotely appealing. It in fact tastes of dirt covered turnips rolled in cat hair and set ablaze with gasoline. Harry howls with delighted laughter as she gags and scrubs at her tongue with her sleeve. Ginny supplies her with a Pepper Imp and a sympathetic pat. 

Hermione, the innocent heart that she is, doesn’t suspect a thing until she begins coughing fire, thick dark smoke curling from her nose and ears.

Harry and Ginny, of course, find this highly amusing. 

It is in the joke shop that Hermione finally has the sweetest and coldest of dishes; revenge.

Harry and Ginny are poking their fingers at the Nose-Biting Teacups when Hermione “accidentally” knocks into a shelf full of Chattering Nibblers. The shelf teeters, rocking back and forth for a moment before it falls to the ground with a great crash. And off go the Nibblers, fiery red ants with heads as big as golf balls and teeth like chipped lawnmower blades, scurrying across the floor with not only 6 legs, but double that, rounding off to an even dozen of scratchy, grabby murder claws. 

Harry and Ginny never stood a chance.

Quick thinker that she is, Hermione scrambles up onto a counter out of the way. The mass of Nibblers converge on Ginny and Harry’s ankles with high pitched war cries and commence to chewing them to bits. Harry loses a good pair of shoes and Ginny loses the same and three shades less of dignity. 

Sitting in a corner booth in the Hog’s Head, Harry hisses and ices his thoroughly nibbled ankles. Ginny mumbles darkly and examines her bitten toes. Hermione sips her butterbeer and ponders that life is indeed grand. 

Butterbeer, Ginny explains, is a very lightly alcoholic. Hermione, being a lightweight with an empty stomach, is soon sloshed and giggling. 

Harry promptly orders a bottle of firewhisky.

Six shots later and the room is very soft and the candlelight just perfect as it flickers over her hands. 

“Sooooooo,” Ginny drawls. “Fleur.” 

Hermione sighs wistfully. “Fleur.” 

Harry hiccups and burps into his fist. “Whazit on the floor?” 

“Fllleeeeuuuuuuuur,” Ginny slurs into his face.

“I said that,” he says. He hiccups again.

“Pssssh.” Ginny waves him away. She turns her attention to Hermione. “Harry said she gives you the eyes.” 

Hermione counts the grains in the wood of the table. “She’s very nice.” 

“Is that all? Pfft.” Ginny leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You need a plan. I suggest frontal assault.” 

“Onwards to the tits!” Harry cries. 

“Not those,” Ginny frowns. “At least, not yet. You have to...finesse her.” 

Hermione leans in. Now there’s a word. 

“Wot? Finesse?” Harry says. He slaps the table. “No, no, no. Confidence, Coldmeats. Witches like a bit of confidence. A lot of confidence, actually.” 

“What have you got to be confident about?” Ginny hisses. “Shut your cake hole, Potter.” 

He flips her off and sulks. 

“What I’m saying,” Ginny continues, “is corner the bird and snog the life out of her.” 

Hermione gasps. “I can’t do that.” 

“Well you’ll never get anywhere with that attitude.” 

“You don’t just kiss someone. Do you?” 

There are boundaries, limitations. The entire issue of consent. How can someone consent if you just toss them into a corner smoosh your face into theirs? 

That’s how it goes, right? Face smooshing?

“Spontaneity, Coldmeats,” Harry says. “You hafta pounce. Like a tiger! Raaawwwrrr!” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Ginny sighs. “Listen, just look into her eyes and lean really close and put your lips like this.” 

Ginny kisses her. Very softly, very carefully. She kisses her and she tastes like whiskey and her hair smells as sweet as citrus peels lying in fresh cut grass. 

Hermione, drunk on more alcohol and sensation than her body can handle, faints. 

Harry and Ginny gape down at the snoring girl. 

“Damn,” Harry says, giving Ginny an admiring look. “I’ll have what she’s having.” 

Smiling smugly, Ginny dusts off her shoulder. "Get in line."


	5. Chapter 5

You’re standing too close, Hermione wants to say to Fleur. 

But this is only a surface thought, a blade of grass skimming over the rippling surface of a pond. Under the water, mixed with the mud and the dark whispers of unseen things, there is another voice. 

One that whispers _Stand closer_.

__

__

Put your cool fingers on the back of my burning neck. Brush your lips along the shell of my ear. Whisper to me and tell me if you feel what I feel. Do your hands shake? Is your heart a frantic, animalistic thing, beating harshly against the bone of your chest? Are you afraid of feeling this strongly? Mortified at your own attraction, your own weakness? Terrified that one word could send it all crashing down? 

Even with Fleur standing so close, she feels utterly alone. There is a pervading sense of pain, of an unknown loss like a thousand cuts sliced into the thin skin over her fingertips. She is a void. She is grey salt on a windy plain of barren earth. She is the aftermath of battle, the coppery scent of slaughter, the horror, the detachment of a mind succumbing to death. She is a festering wound, slowly poisoning the blood.

Really, she is simply foolish. She knows it’s dangerous to hope, but it is there nonetheless, filling her up, consuming her until she thinks maybe, just this once, she could be enough. 

“No,” Fleur says. “You flick your wand. Like this.” 

And she shows her. Fingers wrapped around Hermione’s wrist. Her breath is warm on the side of her neck, sends shivers racing down her spine. 

The ways she says flick. The tip of her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, uncurls as she unwinds the word. Baring her teeth a bit at the end.

“I can’t do this,” Hermione says, taking a step away. 

Fleur watches her, but says nothing. 

“I hate that,” Hermione gestures. “Your silence.” 

It has been a week since Hermione’s adventure in Hogsmeade with Ginny and Harry. In that time Fleur has been a contradiction; one moment a force, hustling Hermione along, explaining each new piece of knowledge with a clipped tone and brusque gestures. The next, she was like this, standing so close Hermione can feel her heartbeat against her back. Watching her carefully, searching for something. 

“Are you going to tell me what this is?” Hermione asks, gesturing at the space between them. “Or are we going to keep dancing around one another?” 

Fleur gives an indignant sniff. “Are you insinuating that I am evasive.” 

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m telling you.” 

Something flickers in Fleur’s eyes, perhaps amusement, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “How very brave of you.” 

Hermione’s arms cross. “If I wait on you, I’ll be old and dead before you decide to open your mouth. You say, “You are not ready, Hermione.” “You wouldn’t understand, Hermione.” Bollocks. Just bollocks. I’m not an idiot. And I’m not patient. What do you want, Fleur?” 

“You.” 

Hermione blinks. 

She did not expect it to be that easy. 

That infuriating smile again, Fleur shifting closer to her. “I want you, but we don’t always get what we want.” 

Hermione tries to breathe. She feels the blood rushing to her face, burning her up. “I...uh...oh. What are you talking about?” 

“Have you ever been in love, Hermione? Have you ever wanted someone so desperately they take over your every thought? You see them in every face, hear their voice even when you are alone?” 

If only you knew, Hermione thinks. But she remains silent, waiting. 

Fleur tilts her head and her eyes are very blue in the sunlight. They are washed with the color of the sea, reflecting Hermione’s face back at her. 

“Veela are not human,” Fleur says. She speaks carefully, as if measuring her words.

Hermione gives her a dubious look. 

“Yes, yes,” Fleur says. “We look it, for the most part. But we are not. We are made of magic much older than anything you can imagine. We can see what others cannot. Looking at you, I can see who you are. All the things you try to keep hidden, I see them.” 

“Well, that’s uncomfortable.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“That.” Fleur takes another step closer, putting them in touching distance. “That fear is unnecessary.” 

A pause, Hermione watching her. “What does it look like?” 

“Fear is like burning metal, all smoke and bitterness. Pain is ice, fractured and splintering. Joy is sunlight. Anger smells like blood. And love is the color of a sunset on a stormy sea.” 

Hermione shivers. 

“And sometimes they mix together, create something new. I see And Veela...we are not bound to anyone in particular. We choose. But our choice is for life. There is no going back once it’s begun. And a long time ago, I chose you.” 

Anger flares in Hermione’s chest, sudden and overwhelming. “We were children!” 

Fleur shrugs. “I knew you were the one.” 

“So you’re telling me that you bound me to you for eternity. Because you had a feeling?” 

“It was a strong feeling.” 

Hermione shakes her head, hands balling into fists. “You’re an asshole. Seriously. Who does that?” 

“Veela.” 

“Oh, god. I need a moment.” Hermione turns away, shredding the insides of her cheeks. 

The nerve! What kind of decision making is that? 

“You chose, too,” Fleur says. 

“Oh, saw that in your pretty colors, did you?” 

“Yes,” Fleur says. Simplistic, as if it’s a fact. 

Fingers touch the back of Hermione’s neck, raising a rash of goosebumps over her skin. 

“When you were gone,” Fleur says, “it was like death. I couldn’t find you. You can’t know what that is to me. You can’t understand the pain.” 

Hermione doesn’t look at her, her eyes on the horizon. 

Fleur’s fingers slide to her shoulder, tightening. “And now you’re here and I can touch you and it still hurts. Because I know you belong with me. But it feels wrong. I can see the conflict in you. The uncertainty. I want you to want me and I don’t know if you can.” 

“I do,” Hermione says, softly. “I just don’t know if I should.” 

“It’s worth the risk, Hermione. I promise you.” 

Hermione turns to look at her, finds her smiling. 

“There's no reward without risk,” Fleur says. “ My heart is set on you. I can't stand to think I might lose you again.” 

There, on the edge of the sea, connected by threads of all the things they don't say, Fleur holds out her hand. 

And Hermione takes it.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey folks! Sorry to put this up like an update, but I felt it was the best course. I have two WIP I’ll be putting on hiatus, this one included. I was tempted to just put it in the tags and leave it at that, but it felt a bit dickish. Several of you have become familiar names to me and all of you are lovely, and you certainly deserve a word or three.

Simply, this time of year tends to be rough on my mental state. My brain feels like a bag of goopy scrambled eggs zipped in a plastic bag and hurled at a brick wall. I go into an existential spin and doubt and question literally EVERYTHING. Even the tiny last chapter of Embers Like Glass I just put up had me ready to delete my account and disappear into the internet mists - I hate it that dang much. The writing starts to feel stiff and mechanical, and if I don’t feel joy in the words then you all won’t either. I want to give you the best quality as I can, even if it’s not much.

I’ll still be around with the occasional one shot and I’m certain I’ll be reading all of your absolutely insanely good fics. I’ll resume the WIPs when I feel able to meet a certain standard and adhere to a decent schedule. I’m sure it won’t be too terribly long. :)

In the meantime, I’ll leave you all to it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart and best wishes to everyone.


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